


it is only in my sleep that i worry

by wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mutually unrequited love, Pining, Unrequited Love, and the enacting of the plot against mary/moriarty, as all my fics will do from now on tbh, if it fits it sits, occurs at some point btwn sherlock getting shot, only these two assholes can pull this off so many times, s4 can fit but doesn't gotta fit, sad wanking, subscribes to the idea of non-linear canon, which is quite the Feat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts
Summary: Whatever the reason, on that third night, Sherlock silently left his door ajar, and John silently crept in after him, slipped under the duvet and curled carefully around Sherlock, leaving just enough space between them so that Sherlock could feel the heat of his presence behind him.





	

Sherlock isn’t sure which of them made the decision that first night, but they’ve slept together every night since.

Well, he says _slept together_.

Still, they’re sharing a bed, albeit a large one, and most nights Sherlock finds he can’t quite imagine the point in the distant future when he has to relearn how to fall asleep without measuring his breath against the rhythm of John’s.

Maybe it happened because on John’s first night back at 221B, it seemed as though he couldn’t quite make it upstairs. Sherlock awoke in the night to find John slumped over in his chair, head propped at an awkward angle, as though he were listening for something, listening for Sherlock, for his breathing, his movement, his existence. Maybe it was because of what happened the second night, when Sherlock woke up yelling himself hoarse, palm pressed painfully against where his chest still throbbed, blood and bullets swimming across his eyelids as he struggled to pry them open, and it sounded like John nearly broke half his limbs crashing through the kitchen to get to him. Whatever the reason, on that third night, Sherlock silently left his door ajar, and John silently crept in after him, slipped under the duvet and curled carefully around Sherlock, leaving just enough space between them so that Sherlock could feel the heat of his presence behind him. And it’s been almost week, and Sherlock’s heavily medicated, half-comatose most of the time and expending enormous amounts of energy just _healing_ , so he’s sleeping every night and all the way through and John doesn’t seem keen to leave his side for any of it.

It’s almost dawn when Sherlock wakes, and it’s clear things have shifted as they slept. He’s burrowed backward into the centre of the bed, toward where it’s warm and safe and smells like John, and John’s pushed forward almost as much, tucked his face into the nape of Sherlock’s neck and his breath is coming rhythmically enough to let on that he’s still sleeping, just exhaling hot and damp over Sherlock’s skin, snuffling a bit into Sherlock’s curls.

John’s arm is over him, at once protective and so very gentle, and John’s front is pressed all up against his back, hand splayed over Sherlock’s ribcage, as though he were trying to keep everything seemingly precious inside it safe with the sheer force of his unconscious will. John’s also slipped one knee between Sherlock’s and hooked his ankle around Sherlock’s calf, and the position is so intimate Sherlock can feel almost every part of John against him.

Some parts more than others.

He doesn’t mean to, really, it’s just he’s never been here before, not like this, and he pushes back, an infinitesimally small amount, just to feel the pressure of John, _there_ , and Sherlock can almost pretend it’s about him.

Then John stirs: chases Sherlock’s movement, grinds hard against Sherlock’s backside and lets out a muffled moan into the back of his neck, and suddenly it’s not such a small thing anymore.

John just keeps _moving_ though, and he’s gripping Sherlock’s front a bit harder, not hard enough to damage but it hurts a little more than he knows John would otherwise allow were it a conscious decision, and he’s pressing his groin right up along the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, and Sherlock panics.

 _John would hate this_ , he thinks, _John would_ despise _this_ , _John is still married_ ; and John is just _sleeping_ with him to protect him from nightmares and from himself, and if he ever knew what Sherlock had done, well, then the real nightmare would begin. So Sherlock does the only thing he can think to do.

He sneezes.

It’s forced, it isn’t a real sneeze, and he puts his whole body into it, shoves John hard into waking before scrambling forward and away from him, just far enough to leave a respectful distance between their bodies. John’s arm tightens on his chest, instinctively by all appearances, before he pulls it back, awake and sheepish. “Sorry,” John mumbles.

“No, no. I’m sorry I woke you.” Sherlock stays curled in and facing away, and doesn’t look at him. “I woke myself, if I’m honest,” he lies.

It’s the most they’ve ever spoken to each other in bed, together.

John sounds as if he’s making a great show of stretching and yawning and getting out of bed, and Sherlock feels a hand on his shoulder as John says, “You okay?”

Sherlock turns just enough to look over his shoulder and nod, averts his eyes from where he knows John can’t possibly be less than half-hard and purses his lips in disdain at the very question.

Then John smiles, but it’s a little sad, just at the very corners of his eyes, like maybe there’s something else behind them, and Sherlock doesn’t know what it is, can’t deduce it, is afraid it’s got something to do with waking up and expecting to be someplace else entirely, with someone else. So Sherlock smiles back as best he can and lets John leave.

John’s barely on the other side of the bathroom door before Sherlock has himself in hand and he’s pulling, he’s rubbing his thumb over the wet head of his prick to spread the liquid slick of precome at the tip down over the shaft, and he chokes on a groan that turns into a sob as he comes all over his own fingers, his orgasm depleting him of the energy it took to keep himself steady and that’s when the tears come, just two, both out of the same eye, his left. One after another, they fall from the corner of his eye and down straight into his hair as he lies with his head thrown back against his pillow, and he doesn’t bother to wipe them away.

He hears the toilet flush and the shower start, and he can’t be sure, but maybe he hears one muted sob, too, one tiny sound that surely came from someplace in John’s chest, someplace he thinks must be at once very near and lifetimes away from the place that aches inside Sherlock’s own.


End file.
